


the walls are giving way

by tobeconvincedoflove



Series: TRC Prompt Fills [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fill, Sickfic, adam has that anxiety™, aka i play violin, also honestly with ronans giant hand kink he would also love this, also music school!au, i also can't spell fight me, i love the wieniawski violin concerto, i made up the violin competition guys i'm sorry, ronan is sick this time, so now must adam, their relationship is established
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-21 23:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15569085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: "I am hitting my head against the walls, but the walls are giving way."-Gustav MahlerAdam has his first international violin competition. Ronan is sick.





	the walls are giving way

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy oh boy oh boy this was a great prompt here it was: How about, there's a virus going around the music school the week that Adam has a music festival, and he avoids it by hiding in his practice room and barely seeing anyone else until Ronan gets sick, and then he's super torn between being there for Ronan and just carrying on practicing, especially since the festival has fairly big prize money and if he can keep it from his parents then he'll put it towards a new violin
> 
>  
> 
> also there's so much that's unexplained because i wrote this while like 20% unconscious so: adam plays violin, ronan plays jazz drums, gansey is a composer who writes like tchaikovsky and tries to weave folk melodies and ideas into his classical orchestra works, and blue works at her family's pub (u know the witches be that appalachia style band). 
> 
> also, the main piece discussed is wieniawski concerto no. 2. I love it, and I would recommend to listening to the following performance: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T7KNd6W5OXo&t=1278s
> 
> enjoy!

“Parrish.” Ronan Lynch walks into the practice room without knocking, and Adam almost jumps out of his own damn body. “Do you live here now?”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Adam groans, but he puts his violin down on top of the piano, which is progress. 

“Riddle me this: why the fuck do you have this room booked for four hours a day the entire week?” Ronan sits on the piano bench, one leg on either side. His legs are spread as far as they can go, and Adam knows that Ronan knows that’s honestly the most distracting thing he could be doing right now. 

“You know why,” Adam says, picks up his violin again. Ronan just scoots closer. “Shut up or get out. I only have the room for another hour.” 

“You don’t scare me,” Ronan says, but he lays down on the floor and closes his eyes. “Serenade me, Parrish.”

“Not exactly a serenade. I’m just pulling parts of the Wieniawski apart and putting them back together, make sure I have it in my fingers,” Adam says.

“Kinky,” Ronan replies, a smirk on his face. Honestly, Adam is surprised Ronan’s eyes are closed at all; his thing for Adam’s hands is only amplified by Adam’s violin playing. When Ronan is drunk, he will compose goddamn monologues about the way Adam’s fingers look dancing across the strings. 

Ronan lets the sounds of Adam’s relentless practice wash over him. Despite how well-worn and cheap his instrument is, Adam’s tone is gorgeous and clear; it’s not holding him back, but Ronan wonders how he would sound on an instrument as good as he deserves. Adam says that, if he wins this competition, he’ll use the prize money to invest in a good violin. It’s the first competition since he’s been at music school, and his parents don’t know about it. He knows what violin he wants, has had it on hold at the shop he works at while he puts dollars in a jar to pay for it until it’s finally his. He would be able to buy it quick enough that the Parrishes couldn’t steal the money before he uses it. 

It’s crazy, Ronan thinks, how different the world of classical violin is from his own world. Yeah, Ronan likes a good drum set, but it’s not nearly as personalized as matching a violin to a person, and he can use any of the ones in the practice rooms and sound mostly the same. 

Adam is drilling himself into the void. He’s just picking apart passages, running them over and over and over again until whatever miniscule mistakes he hears that Ronan can’t are gone. 

When he’s finally packing up his violin, Ronan sits up. 

“Run me through this whole thing again,” he says. “Just so I know what you’re playing when.”

“I’m probably not going to even play the Wieniawski,” Adam says, rubbing his left wrist and wincing a little. “That’s only if I make the final.” 

“And you’re a quarterfinalist right now,” Ronan says, and Adam nods. “But that was all video stuff. Now is the actual competition.”

“Yeah. First round, I have to play a Bach Partida and any sonata I want. If I move on, the second round you play a quartet and a flashy piece, accompanied by piano. Then, on the very, very slim chance I make the final round, I play the full Wieniawski concerto with an orchestra,” Adam explains. He sounds tired, shoulders slumped and movements slow. 

“Okay, so you’re playing the second partida right, the chaconne?” Ronan confirms, and Adam twists his hands. Adam is nervous, because it’s a risky pick. “And the first movement of the Beethoven sonata.” 

“Yeah, Nine. The Kreutzer,” Adam says. “I’m not going to get past that round. The Beethoven is good, but I’m just worried they’re going to think I overreached with the Bach. It’s so hard to do well.” 

“You will. And then you’re doing Dvorak’s American Quartet and that one fucking Paganini Caprice,” Ronan continues. “Twenty-four? Twenty four.” Ronan has heard every fucking violinist play the opening of that one at some point, but he didn’t know how good it could sound until Adam played it. 

“There’s no way I’m going to make it through that round. It’s been… quartets have been harder, since my ear…” Adam looks down. Ronan _knows_ how hard it’s been for Adam to re-learn so many parts of playing violin since his father deafened his ear the night before he left for the conservatory. Being first violin puts his deaf ear towards his fellow musicians and his hearing ear towards the audience, so Adam has had to adapt so much and he still struggles with it, sometimes. 

“Well, it’ll sound amazing. Adam, you’ll be fine. It’s amazing that you got this far,” Ronan says, pulls Adam close and rests Adam’s chin on his own shoulder. Adam breathes out, but Ronan holds him close for a second before lacing their fingers together. “Let’s go get food and then you can sleep. I know you have a lot of rehearsal shit tomorrow.” 

“Better be Thai food,” Adam says, and Ronan throws him an easy smile. 

“Of course. Hey, did you hear the entire fucking flute department got some virus? It’s been going around.” And just like that, Adam lets himself be distracted. Just for a minute.

:: ::

Ronan doesn’t see Adam until the day before the competition starts. It’s by design; Adam is avoiding everyone who is not his violin or work, and Ronan is avoiding Adam.

He’s miserable. But Adam would cut Ronan’s dick off if he got him sick right now. 

It’s karma, Ronan’s sure of it, for making the fucking jokes about the flute department. The past few days, he’s been holed up in random corners of the jazz lounge, because if he goes home and sleeps in their bed he’s going to get Adam sick and then Adam’s going to lose after all that work and it’s just… he can’t do that to him. A win, hell even just being a finalist, at this competition opens so many doors: it’s not just the violin, it’s the solo exposure, the promise of more opportunities to perform with the New York Philharmonic. 

Ronan can’t put that in jeopardy. Luckily, Adam has been locked in the practice room, and when he’s not there he’s rehearsing with the pianist or having extra privates or is in his actual classes, so he probably just doesn’t know. Ronan honestly doesn’t know if Adam has actually slept in their bed this week, either. If only it were that easy to hide from the rest of them. Blue keeps forcing her mom’s shitty tea on him, Gansey keeps handing him water bottles and medicine, and Noah will nap with him in the jazz lounge. Blue also threatened him with death if he brought the germs to her family’s pub. So there’s that. 

That is, until Ronan wakes up to Adam’s voice. 

“Oh, _fuck_.” Adam’s face is swimming, Ronan’s vision blurry from half of his face still being smashed into the couch cushions. “Ronan, you awake?”

“The fuck you doing here, Parrish?” Ronan’s voice is hoarse, and he breaks out into a coughing fit that sounds wet and deep. Adam just rubs circles onto his back, helps Ronan sit up. “Nuh uh. You’re not getting sick right now.”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Adam Parrish’s immune system can barely considered functional. Illnesses hit him quickly, and they hit him hard. 

“Shut up. You should have told me you were sick, you shithead.” Adam’s voice is soft, rough, and his lips press against Ronan’s forehead. “Come on. I don’t trust you not to die if I leave you here.” 

“Adam. No.” Ronan’s voice is as firm as he can make it, but Adam just pulls Ronan to his feet. “The contest… ‘s too important.” But he just ends up coughing again, and Adam’s hands are the only things keeping him upright. 

“Trust me.” Adam’s voice leaves no room for argument. Ronan’s eyes aren’t really in their best shape, but he recognizes the hallways as Adam leads him away from the jazz-focused area of the conservatory into the bowels of the string practice rooms. There, in Adam’s practice room, is a nest of blankets, a case of water, Ronan’s soundproof headphones, and a sanitary mask. 

Ronan could honestly almost cry. He doesn’t deserve Adam. 

“Gansey and Blue are fighting about folk songs again. I think this might be quieter,” Adam says, as he helps Ronan get set up on the floor. “And this way I can keep an eye on you.”

“M’ fine, Parrish,” Ronan slurs out, but honestly he can feel his heart growing in his chest. 

“You’re really fucking not,” is all Adam says before he continues practicing. He’s working on the first round stuff, which is a lot more peaceful than some of the other stuff. Ronan’s eyes are mostly shut, but he drifts in and out of consciousness in waves that seem to fit the chaconne so well and it’s like, well, it’s just so Adam. Ronan’s chest is still tight and he still feels gross and hot and cold at the same time, but it’s different when he’s with Adam. There’s a piece of machinery somewhere in his chest that has just slotted back into the right place, that has stabilized Ronan’s heart despite the fluctuating temperature in his brain. Or whatever. 

Whatever. Whatever. Whatever. 

He doesn’t even realize that Adam’s done until he’s crouched back next to Ronan. 

“Can you make it home?” Adam asks. “I can call a car, if you can’t.” Ronan just rolls over.

“I’ll make it back. You just… stay,” Ronan gets out, and Adam just sighs, plops on his ass right next to Ronan. 

“I don’t know how many times I’m gonna have to say this, but I’m not leaving you alone. We got your baby-sitting schedule all worked out.” Ronan doesn’t know if it’s for his benefit or if Adam’s just that tired, but his Henrietta accent is out in full. 

“The fuck do you mean?” Ronan croaks out, as Adam goes about getting them out of there. “Adam, you don’t need to worry about this shit right now. I don’t want… I don’t want to…” 

“It’s okay. I want to,” Adam says, voice impossibly gentle. “If I practice any more tonight, I’m going to go insane.” 

“You’re gonna get sick. Adam, it means too much—” 

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t be worrying more if I wasn’t with you,” Adam just replies. The walk back to their university-rent-controlled apartment is mostly silent; Ronan’s focusing too much on just fucking walking straight and Adam is clearly too gone. It’s only when they’re close that Adam speaks again. “I’m gonna take the couch tonight.”

“No way, Parrish.” Ronan’s voice is wrecked. “You need to rest.”

“Pot, meet kettle.” Adam’s voice is a deadpan. “We’re not fightin’ about this now. You’re sick.” 

By the time they get to the apartment, Adam is mostly holding Ronan’s weight up, but as soon as Gansey sees he takes over, steers Ronan to his and Adam’s room. Adam just sits himself down on the couch. That was the agreement he’d reached with Gansey earlier in the day; he could make sure Ronan was okay, but then after that he would focus on the competition. But Adam wins in the caveat he threw in: they’d stay with Ronan as long as Adam was still in the competition. All of them. Gansey had protested, wanting to support Adam, because he knows Adam’s performance anxiety, but he had eventually given in. 

“Are you ready?” Blue asks, slipping a mug of tea into Adam’s hands. She leans her head on his shoulder, and Adam’s reminded of Henrietta. Before Blue had moved to New York with her weird folk-band family, it had been Adam and Blue in a public school music class. Before Adam had picked up a violin, before he had met Persephone. Before the auditions and scholarships and competitions and before he had finally freed himself from his parents. “Persephone is so, so proud. She says she’s watching the live stream.” 

Adam’s first violin teacher. She’d let him pay her in practice time and help in the kitchen, accepting messy practice logs like they were worth everything. 

“As ready as I can be.” It’s a big competition; not nearly as prestigious as the Menuhin or composer-named ones, but it’s New York City’s big one, open to the entire world. Adam is the lone representative from their conservatory. 

“You’re going to do great. I’ll send you the best comments from the livestream,” Blue promises. “They’re all going to know you’re amazing. It takes balls to play both of those, much less in a row.” 

“We’ll see if the risk pays off. Let me know how he’s doing?” Adam asks, and Blue just sighs. 

“I don’t want to worry you if he’s feeling—”

“I’d worry more if you didn’t.” It’s said like a promise. “Please, Blue.” 

“Yeah. Of course. Just… We love you. We’re there with you.” Blue squeezes Adam’s hand. “All of us.”

:: ::

Adam is tired. He’d tried to sleep on the couch, but his back has been bad as it is. He’s also wired, anxiety and adrenaline running through his hands so badly that they’re shaking. His pianist is telling him it’s going to be good, even as he stands there and watches everyone in his age division play safe pieces and play them more beautifully than he ever could. He hates warm-up rooms and backstage, because it doesn’t matter what everyone else is playing or doing. They always sound better. They always look more elegant, emote more, have better instruments. Adam’s violin is, without a doubt, the cheapest in the room by at least one zero, and he’s terrified that it’s going to show in how gentle he has to be in high positions on the low strings, about how hard he has to work to not crack certain notes. Do they know he rehairs his own bow? Do they notice the tip is broken?

He’s going last. That’s either a good thing or a terrible thing: if he plays well, it will the most recent for the judges to remember, and if he fucks it up, they’re never going to forget it. 

As Adam walks out, he pretends his friends are there. Ronan isn’t sick, he’s sitting there and cheering just because Adam exists, Gansey is giving him his proudest dad smile, Blue winks at him, and Henry and Noah are clutching each other to calm their own nerves. In reality, his violin teacher exaggerates a breath, a remind to Adam to let the anxiety fade away. 

Adam tunes quickly. 

He allows himself one breath. He thinks of Ronan’s eyes whenever Adam plays, thinks about the first time they kissed. Adam had been a wreck; he was struggling in his quartet assignment, because being deaf in his left ear makes sitting first violin difficult. He can’t fucking hear what the others are doing most of the time, and when he’d freaked out after a particularly bad rehearsal, Ronan had dragged Adam by the hand until they were in the jazz wing. He’d taken Adam into his favorite practice room, had used the drum set he loves so much to show Adam vibrations through the floor, feeling with hands and feet and showing Adam percussion, showing him a part of his own music. 

There, on the floor of the practice room, a drumstick in each hand, Ronan had kissed him. 

Adam starts to play.

:: ::

It’s almost eleven in the morning before Ronan wakes up. His head is spinning, throat raw and swollen and chest aching, but he pushes himself into a sitting position. Once he sees the time on his phone, he’s out of bed, lurching his way to common area using door frames and walls and sheer will-power.

“Fuck you,” is all Blue Sargent says, before she’s dragging Ronan by the elbow to the couch. “Jesus you shouldn’t be up.” 

“We’re not infecting Adam’s space,” Ronan forces out, the words feeling like knives leaving his throat. He swallows harshly. 

“Take this, drink this, and shut up,” Blue argues. “We’re not infecting Adam’s space. You are. When you inevitably pass out again, we’re gonna switch the sheets covering the couch and shit and it’ll be all good to go.” 

Ronan takes the pills, swallows the water, and then melts into the couch cushions. The sheets still smell like Adam. “He play yet?” 

“Nah. He’s going last. He’s up in five,” Blue says. “I’m setting up my laptop with the livestream. I’m trying to play it on the TV but Gansey has so much fucking weird shit that I can’t find the damn plug-in.” 

As if summoned, Gansey appears. He makes quick work of projecting Blue’s screen onto the TV, so they can see the comment section and Adam at the same time. He sits on Ronan’s other side, forces a bowl of soup into Ronan’s hands. He feels Ronan’s forehead, tsks at the heat, but just wraps Ronan in a blanket and turns his attention to the screen. 

“You talk to Adam today?” Ronan asks, and Blue just shakes her head. She’s biting her nails. 

“No. Noah and Henry tried to call, but it went straight to voicemail. They’re trying to sneak in, but it looks like they’re so far back in standing room that he’s not going to be able to see them.” Gansey’s voice is tight. “That might be for the best, though.” 

“Shush. He’s on!” Blue says, reaches over Ronan to grip Gansey’s hand tightly. Ronan fake gags, but that turns into a cough. 

Adam looks good. Ronan can see the stress lines on his forehead, even as Adam smiles, but the slacks and tie and coat and button-down fit him so well. The suit and pants are navy, tight enough to send a twinge straight through Ronan’s gut, and the pale blue shirt and checkered tie are classy, and the way he holds the violin is elegant, effortless. 

And then Adam starts to play. Ronan knows how anxious Adam must be, the cameras and judges and pressure swirling inside of him violently, but it doesn’t show in his playing. His vibrato is as wide as ever, speed fast but not too fast. Each sound comes out clearly and beautifully, tone luscious. Adam is expressive, face emoting and body moving just enough. Ronan can barely see straight but he knows it’s going well, Gansey’s hand gripping Blue’s like he’s afraid the earth will fall out from beneath them. 

Ronan thinks he falls in love with Adam all over again as he plays Beethoven. There’s something that connects Adam to artists like Wieniawski and Brahms and Beethoven and Shostakovich, the deepness of the pain they felt making its way across centuries and into Adam’s own blood vessels and tendons. He thinks Beethoven sits so particularly well inside of Adam because it’s so percussive, even when it’s just violin and piano; the chords are strong and loud enough that Adam can feel them through the floor, doesn’t have to work as hard with his right ear to be together. 

When both pieces are over, Ronan watches the tension leave Adam’s shoulders. His smile is small and polite, but Ronan knows that it went well. Adam would have been all tight lines and creases between his eyebrows if it hadn’t. 

“The results will be announced in an hour,” someone is saying, but Ronan just drifts back off to sleep.

:: ::

“Did he get through?” Ronan slurs when he wakes up, some hours later. Gansey is in the kitchen, hunched over sheet music like it’s the most important thing in the world, and Blue is curled up on the other end of the couch with a mug of something.

“Jesus, you sound like shit,” Blue says, handing Ronan another handful of pills and a glass of water. “Down in one.” 

“You fucking know it, Maggot,” Ronan spits back, but ends up doubling over in a harsh coughing fit. “Oh fucking shit motherfucking hell that hurt.”

“Dumbass.” Blue’s voice is plain. “But, yeah. He’s in the semi-finals. He’s in quartet rehearsal with whoever they’ve assigned him right now.” 

“Really?” Ronan sits up quickly, regrets it when his head starts to swim. “ _God._ Why can’t this shit just go away?” 

“You’re almost over the worst of it. Just keep drinking fluids and shit,” Blue supplies. “But yeah. He should be home in a few hours.” 

“He’s gonna win,” Ronan says, a smirk coming over his face. 

“I dunno. The internet loves him, but they’ve also picked a favorite. A twenty-six-year-old lady from South Korea. They’ve, uh, they’ve noticed his violin isn’t in, ah, the best shape,” Gansey comments, looking up from his scores. “But he’s definitely up there. He should have no issues getting into the final round.” 

“That fucking violin,” Ronan spits out. “I should just… I’m gonna go to the shop. Gonna get it before,” Ronan says, but when he stands up he immediately falls back onto the couch. “Or I’m gonna take a nap.” 

“Jesus, you’re a mess,” Blue says. “You’re going to sleep in your own room.” She helps Ronan help, helps him into the next room.

:: ::

Ronan wakes intermittently, manages to eat some more soup and take more medicine. He falls asleep before Adam gets back.

He thinks he wakes up to fingers carding through his hair, once. 

Ronan goes back to sleep.

:: ::

“I’m going, tonight,” Ronan says, voice harsh. “I feel better.”

“Doesn’t mean you feel well.” That’s Declan. He has just come back from the philharmonic rehearsal with the four finalists; Adam is running over a few things with his teacher, but he should be back to shower and get ready before the last stage of the competition. “He sounds great. He’s definitely in contention.” 

“Fuck off.” Ronan’s voice is muffled, as he’s smothering himself with a pillow. “I’m going.” 

“You coughing is just going to distract him,” Gansey tries. “And, remember, he doesn’t know that any of us are going, at all.” 

“I’m going. I gotta be there. He’s gonna be so fucking nervous.” Ronan’s voice still sounds plugged, but he’s been awake more hours than he’s been asleep today, so there’s that. 

“He’ll be fine. It’s a miracle you haven’t infected Adam already,” Declan says, wrinkling his nose. “He needs to focus, if he wants to win. Everyone left in the competition is older than him, with ten years of practice and thousands of dollars on him.” 

“Just because a violin is expensive doesn’t mean it’s good,” Blue says coldly. She thinks of Persephone’s own violin. 

“No, but these are both. I will say that he has the best understanding and execution of the Wieniawski that I’ve heard in a long time,” Declan says. “And he’s earned enough money for being a finalist that he can finally buy that violin he’s been saving for.” 

“Go the fuck away,” Ronan groans. Declan may be principal trumpet with the New York Philharmonic, but Ronan knows Declan will always be Dad’s greatest disappointment. Niall Lynch was a jazz drummer through and through, but it was clear Declan would never follow in his footsteps, so he switched to classical early. 

“Hopefully, I won’t see you tonight.” Then Declan leaves their apartment. 

“Do you think Adam will want me to iron his shirt? Or his pants?” Gansey asks, hands brimming with nervous energy. 

“Go for it,” Blue says with a snort, turning to Ronan. “If you can stay awake through two whole episodes of Queer Eye, you can go tonight.” 

Ronan Lynch has never been one to back down from a challenge. 

That’s how they end up bundling him into a concert hall, blanket hidden in Blue’s purse. They’re somewhere where Adam will be able to see them. None of them have really seen Adam at all since this started, apart from short fifteen minute moments when Adam gets home and they talk about the day until it’s clear Adam just wants to check on Ronan.

He has sat with Ronan almost all night, both nights. It’s a miracle Adam Parrish is still awake enough to be standing, much less preparing to play a twenty-five minute concerto with one of the best orchestras in the world. But he is, and Declan even texts Gansey a backstage creeper-shot of Adam to prove he’s alive and standing and not currently drowning in anxiety. He’s talking with the concertmaster and Gansey’s mom, the music director for the orchestra. Mrs. Gansey is delighted that Adam has made it this far, and she says if he plays well tonight there’s a strong chance he could repeat the performance with the orchestra later in the season, regardless of place.

Gansey hasn’t told Adam any of this. Adam would murder him. 

“He’s gonna do good,” Ronan mutters, flipping through his program as Blue wraps the blanket around his shoulders. 

“And if he murders us for technically-not-breaking-but-really-breaking the deal, it’s on your head,” Blue responds gleefully. 

“He’s so nervous,” Noah says. “I haven’t seen his performance anxiety be this bad since his conservatory audition.” Noah and Henry have just sat down on Ronan’s other side. They had been backstage with Adam. 

“He knows what’s on the line,” Henry says. “I gave him the card from our theory class, though, and he liked it.”

“The entire conservatory is rooting for him,” Gansey says with a smile. “Even the composers, and we rarely root for anyone.” 

“You look like you’re going to fucking explode, dude,” Henry says to Ronan, who is chewing on his leather bracelets. “You’re freaking out the classical music crowd here.” 

“I’m just… he’s worked so _fucking_ hard, and he’s so close, you know?” Ronan says, and Blue grabs onto his right hand. She squeezes it.

“Let’s enjoy it,” she says. “Because you know Parrish won’t.” 

Ronan’s eyes are slipping shut throughout the first two performances. Adam is playing third, and it takes a sharp Maggot elbow to Ronan’s ribs to jolt him to alertness right as Adam walks on the stage. Ronan will never get over how Adam looks in that performance tuxedo, hair gelled and styled and violin free of the ever-present rosin marks. 

Adam looks like every tendon is straining. He’s so nervous that Ronan can see how ripcord tight his back, his shoulders are, but when Adam looks out to the audience, taking a small bow, his eyes meet Ronan’s for one second. 

Adam smiles. 

This concerto has a long orchestra opening, and while Adam doesn’t allow himself another look at his friends, there’s a reduction in the tension held in every line of his body. When Adam finally comes in, Ronan forgets all of the arguments they’ve had about Adam’s instrument. His tone is so rich, so powerful, that the melody seems to soar like Ronan hasn’t heard in their little practice room; it’s not a sad sound, but there’s unrest underneath the gorgeous melody, bubbling underneath the surface in the minor arpeggios and intervals and every action in that first movement. Through all of the dissonant chords and difficult passages and that damn sixteenth note run all sul G and sul fourth finger, Adam doesn’t waver. His whole body is involved in every movement, painting a beautiful image so clear that the judges would be fools to miss it. 

Ronan will never get over the way Adam’s fingers look dancing across the strings. 

The second movement is calmer, but no less difficult, and in the quietest and most beautiful moments, Ronan thinks of how Adam explains violin to him. Here, Adam allows himself real emotion, is putting his heart on the front of the stage for the world to see, eyes wide open and bright. The sound coming out is so luscious, so pure, so undeniably Adam that Ronan can feel Adam’s fear for a second. This is Adam, putting everything he has out and wondering if it’s good enough. 

It makes the third movement so much more triumphant. Ronan glances over, and he sees Adam’s joy reflected in their friends’ faces, in his own, in the faces of total strangers. It looks like Adam is having fun, is making the difficult, impossible passages look natural. 

There’s no blatant cadenza, but it’s like Adam doesn’t need to show off skills when he is shining so brightly with the orchestra behind him. 

When it’s over, in a dash to the finish, and Adam’s standing with his bow still in the air, the smile on his face is real. It’s so wide that Ronan can’t help to match it, and he’s yelling so loudly and standing so quickly that it should be out of place. It isn’t. 

The crowd is with Adam. 

Adam’s eyes are wet and bright and full of joy as he takes his bows and exits the stage. 

It has to be enough to win. Ronan doesn’t know what else Adam could have done.

:: ::

Ronan is the only one in the living area when Adam comes home.

Without speaking, without doing anything, Ronan wraps his arms around Adam. Adam melts into him, and Ronan can feel how much Adam is shaking, so Ronan just holds on tighter. 

“I was so close, Ro,” Adam gets out, voice as harsh as Ronan’s has been the past few days. “I don’t know what I could have done.”

“Hey. I’m so fucking proud of you,” Ronan gets out, tightens his arms around Adam’s waist. “You got second at your first international competition. That’s incredible, Adam.” 

“I thought… I couldn’t have done it better. I still fucked up in places and I’m not saying it was perfect but… it felt so _good_.” Adam’s voice is soft, and it breaks at the end. His next breath is harsh. It’s only then that Ronan realizes how warm Adam’s skin feels. 

“You were incredible. You won enough money to buy a new violin, and I know Mrs. Gansey offered you a performance,” Ronan says. “It’s not a failure, Parrish.” 

“I let down the conservatory. I let down Mrs. Gansey,” Adam gasps out. Ronan swiftly maneuvers them into their bedroom, sits Adam down on the bed. 

“You didn’t let down anyone, okay? But you’re exhausted, Adam. We can think about things tomorrow; we can even watch it all again if you want.” Ronan leans Adam into him, one hand sneakily feeling Adam’s forehead.

It’s not burning, but it’s warm. 

Ronan thinks this boy is an idiot. He’s in love.

:: ::

As of the next morning, it’s official. Adam Parrish is sick. Yesterday, Adam won second prize at an international violin competition and soloed with the New York Philharmonic with the flu.

Today, Adam Parrish spends the entire day half-asleep and coughing in his own bed. Ronan threatens to practice the drums in their room if Adam so much as thinks about violin. 

They watch Cutthroat Kitchen instead.

**Author's Note:**

> ahaha lmk what you think sorry if this feels weird and rushed


End file.
